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“Thanks.”
“You’re going to call me or Mark tomorrow and tell us what’s going on, right?”
Mark and JoJo worked as private investigators. Mostly they specialized in criminal cold cases but he imagined they would be tempted to take on something a little more current if it meant giving him a hand.
First he had to know if a crime had occurred. Second, he needed to find out who she was.
“I’ll let you know when I know something. I promise.”
Greg shoved the phone in his pocket. “Satisfied?”
She nodded. “She said I could trust you.”
“And me, too,” Chuck chimed in, “right?”
The woman smiled shyly. “She said you were a bullshit artist and I shouldn’t believe half of what comes out of your mouth.”
Chuck’s jaw dropped. “I thought JoJo liked me.”
“She also said beyond the bullshit was a sweet guy.”
“Sweet?” Chuck groaned. “I hate being sweet!”
Greg laughed. “But you are sweet. Okay, let’s ditch the hospital. I’ll call the sheriff and let him know you’re staying with me.”
Greg started to turn but she reached out and grabbed his arm. “Why are you doing this? Really?”
“Really? I have no flipping idea. But it’s not like I had anything better to do on a Sunday.”
* * *
SHE LOOKED IN THE STEAMED-UP mirror. “Amanda. Amy. Alice. Alison.”
The names triggered nothing. She tried again. “Beth. Betty. Barbara. Bonnie.”
Maybe if she had one of those baby books. She could go through it alphabetically and wait until something jumped out at her. Then, once she remembered that one critical piece of information, everything else would fall into place.
She took a step back from the mirror and looked at her body. Despite her lack of memory it didn’t feel foreign to her. The three oddly placed moles on her chest actually looked familiar. She touched them and drew a line between the one in the center, the one that hovered over her right breast and the one that hovered over her left. As she made the triangle, it was something she felt she’d done before.
Her very own body art.
She’d already checked for any scrapes or wounds. There was nothing she could see. Twisting around in the mirror she didn’t detect any obvious marks on her back. That gave her relief. At least she wasn’t the product of some type of abuse. Not a victim.
Then why did whatever happen to you take your memory? Your life?
“Excellent question,” she muttered. But at least she was starting to understand the way she thought about things. She was cautious in nature. Which again felt right. Cautious women were smart women. They didn’t jump feetfirst into unknown territory. They were thoughtful and patient and wise.
Even standing naked in some strange man’s bathroom, she felt she’d handled the situation as best she could. She was at the mercy of human kindness with no memory, no identification and no money.
Greg Chalmers had offered to help her, but she hadn’t just accepted it. She’d questioned it. She’d gotten a reference from a woman.
This made her careful. She liked the idea of being a careful person. It soothed her and gave her back a little of her control.
Glancing at the toilet, she looked at the jeans and T-shirt she had placed on the lid. Greg’s clothes that he suspected would fit. The jeans had her a little worried. Yes, he was taller than she was, but he had no hips.
Staring back in the mirror, hers weren’t anything to write home about, but even a woman with no hips sometimes found herself stuck in boy jeans. However, the option of putting her own clothes back on wasn’t available. They were being washed, including her panties and bra. She’d never been so happy to strip out of clothes as she was when she arrived at Greg’s apartment.
A knock on the door startled her. She jumped then, checked to see that she’d locked it, which she knew she had because after she’d locked it, she’d tested it twice.
“How are you doing in there?”
Greg. He sounded worried. Maybe she had spent an overly long time in the shower, but the need to feel clean, really clean, had pushed her to stay under the hot stream of water until it had run lukewarm.
“Okay.”
“You must be hungry. I’m making spaghetti.”
At the mention of food her stomach rumbled. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Good.”
She scrambled into his jeans and gave a sigh of relief when they buttoned and zipped. Her butt was snug but that was to be expected when the owner of the jeans didn’t have one of those either. The T-shirt was a thick cotton and navy blue. She tucked it in and bloused it a little to create a loose effect. Satisfied she didn’t scream “here are my boobs, please look at them” she was ready to leave the safety of the bathroom. She’d already used a comb to untangle her hair and tie it up into a knot that would hold as long as it was still wet.
The two men were already in the kitchen. Greg was using prongs to dish out pasta and then handing Chuck a big bowl of what appeared to be sauce and meatballs. A green plastic container of cheese and a basket of white square bread she was pretty sure came out of a plastic bag sat on the table amongst the dishes.
This was wrong. Dinner was not being served properly. Instinctively, she knew that.
“You know if you pour the pasta back into the pot where the gravy is cooking, it will take on some of the flavor. Then you can serve it already mixed together.”
They looked at her for a moment as if she was an alien, but then Greg nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll try that next time.”
She approached the table and sat down. She wanted to be grateful. She was grateful. The shower, the clothes, the feeling that there was a place in the world for her to be. She owed these two men everything.
But, seriously, how could they call that tasteless white stuff that Chuck was spreading an inordinate amount of butter on bread?
Greg piled some pasta on her plate and handed her the gravy. She took two big meatballs, what she imagined was a hunk of sausage, and mixed it in with her pasta. She sprinkled the cheese from the container on top of her plate, disappointed that the powdery substance didn’t melt properly.
Without expressing her dismay, she ate. It didn’t matter that it was fake cheese and sauce from a jar. It was food. They were kind to be giving it to her. She would never forget this meal for as long as she lived.
Silence reigned over the table as the two men dug in. They both ate as if they were starving and, given how thin they were, maybe they were.
She looked to Greg and the thought popped out of her mouth before she could think better of it.
“You’re one of those tall, lean men who can eat whatever you want, aren’t you?”
He nodded around a mouthful of pasta.
“And Chuck, I bet you eat junk food all day long but never gain any weight.”
He smiled as he bit into his butter-covered bread.
She smiled and stood up, leaving the napkin she’d placed on her lap on the table. “Do you have a spoon?”
Chuck’s eyebrows rose. As he cut his pasta with a fork and knife, he shook his head. “What do you need a spoon for?”
“Third drawer over from the sink,” Greg offered.
Taking his direction, she found the utensil she was looking for and sat down again. With precision born of practice she lifted the pasta onto the fork, braced it against the spoon and twirled it until it was a perfectly neat bite.
After a few mouthfuls, Chuck got up from his seat and also found a spoon. Greg, she noticed did not, preferring to brace the fork against the plate and spin it. She might have protested if it was china, but the everyday dishware was made of sturdy material.
You used to eat pasta off of china.
The thought was the barest whisper along her brain.
Think! When? Where? With whom?
“We need a name for you.”
The question startled her out of her thoughts.
“We can’t keep calling you ‘hey, you.’”
She tried a faint smile. “I’m fairly certain ‘you’ is not my name.”
“What about Jane?” Chuck proposed. “You know, like Jane Doe.”
She frowned. “Jane. A little unoriginal, don’t you think?”
“Would you rather be Bunny or Cherry or something?” Chuck asked.
“No. I choose not to sound like someone who made her living dancing with a pole.” She stopped herself then. “That sounded really snobbish, even to my ears. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Maybe you know girls named Bunny and Cherry and they are strippers,” Greg allowed.
“I hardly think I spend my time around strippers.” She was offended. Then she realized how snobbish that had sounded, as well. For all she knew she was a stripper. Maybe it was the only way she could afford to make rent, pay for food and take care of her child.
Oh my God! Do I have a child?
“Stop with the what-ifs,” Greg told her. He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Your breathing is accelerated, your pupils are dilating. You’re in a mild stage of panic. Stop wondering about what you can’t answer. Take five deep calming breaths and then concentrate on eating.”
It was the way he said it. As though he was a doctor ordering two aspirin and a follow-up call in the morning. She did as he directed without thought and then went back to her bland pasta meal.
“For now we’ll call you Jane.”
Jane sighed and felt tears well up. It wasn’t her name. She knew it. Instead, she worked on her breathing and forced down her tears. “It doesn’t feel right.”
Greg nodded, and it wasn’t until then that she realized his hand was still resting warmly on top of hers. He made her feel safe, just with his touch. That was quite a gift.
“Okay. Then we know two things about you. Your name is not Jane....”
“What’s the other?”
“You’re the daughter of a wealthy Italian-American family.”
CHAPTER THREE
HE WATCHED AS JANE SCRUNCHED her face in rejection.
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“You said the name didn’t feel right.”
“Yes, I know my name isn’t Jane. It’s the other part you can’t know. Look at my hair.” She unraveled the wet knot that was now partially dry and it dropped to nearly her waist. Long shimmering strands of blond on blond.
“Genetics is a crazy thing. I didn’t say you were southern Italian, only that you came from an Italian family.”
“Oh, here he goes.” Chuck groaned. “He’s about to Sherlock Holmes you.”
“What?”
“Follow,” Greg began. “You refer to the sauce as gravy, as do most Italian-Americans. You tried not to, but you winced at the bread and the container of cheese, which means you’re used to finer Italian cuisine. You instructed us on how to properly prepare it, which means you have some expertise with Italian cooking. Your back isn’t touching the chair and the paper napkin was spread on your lap in a manner that suggests you’re used to using cloth. Also, you got yourself a spoon, which indicates you were raised in a house where manners were important. Manners are traditionally more important among upper-middle-to upper-class homes. Why I say you’re wealthy is that you looked at me while I twirled my fork against my plate, and then you studied your own plate as if you were concerned for the surface. That suggests you eat on finer dinnerware, potentially china, and china for everyday eating suggests wealth.”
Jane gasped.
“I know,” Chuck said. “It’s freaky. But he’s usually right.”
Greg watched her face, as she assimilated all the information he’d given her. Eventually, she nodded. “Okay. I guess that makes sense. I had the same thought about the china, too. And I hope you don’t think I’m not thankful for the meal...but the white bread was a little off-putting.”
“You just need to put a lot of butter on it,” Chuck suggested as he reached for another slice.
“It’s all just pieces, Jane. Put enough of them together and eventually they will start to paint a picture. When you see the picture it will make more sense.”
She nodded and reached again for her fork and spoon.
Greg’s cell phone went off and he pulled it out of his back pocket. Only a number registered, but he recognized the area code.
“Excuse me.”
He got up and walked as far away from the kitchen area as he could. The place he and Chuck inhabited was basically one large open space that comprised the kitchen and living area. Off that space were two bedrooms and a spiral staircase that led to a loft where Chuck kept all his technical equipment. By Philadelphia standards it was big and luxurious and something they never would have been able to afford without Chuck’s squirrels.
Unless Greg walked into his bedroom and shut the door, there wasn’t a lot of privacy for this type of conversation. He didn’t want his actions to seem suspicious, but he was afraid he had no other choice. He had a fairly strong inkling who was calling.
Closing the door to his bedroom, he finally answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Chalmers? This is Sheriff Danielson. That girl still with you?”
Greg imagined Jane might take exception at the description of “girl.” She might not know her birthday, but she certainly knew she was a grown woman. For that matter, so did Greg.
